


Can You Read Me?

by ShinySherlock



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, POV Natasha Romanov, Sub Steve Rogers, a little bit, i have feelings about how nat/bruce happened in age of ultron, if you felt the nat/bruce stuff was genuine in the film then maybe this is not the fic for you, this is just a one-shot so the ships are like hints of ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His jaw is tight, his eyes hard. “You see all that in my file?”<br/>“Steve,” she says, a sad smile curling her lips. “I see all that in your face.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Read Me?

 

She walks into his room, half her sentence out before she realizes she’s intruded.

“Hey, Sam and I are gonna--”

But Steve is lying on his bunk, his back to her, and at the sound of her voice his body curls inward, shoulders hunching. She takes one step inside the door, stops when she hears him take a shuddering breath.

“Sorry, Rogers. Didn’t mean to interrupt your wank.”

“Fuck off, Romanoff.”

She catches the hitch in his voice; he’s been crying.

Though Natasha hasn’t, technically, known Steve long, she knows him well, yet this is the first time he’s let her see him this way. She steps forward, softens her voice. “You a poet now, too?”

He doesn’t answer, but Natasha doesn’t really expect him to. Their banter only goes so far, and if the best Steve can come up with is “fuck off”, he’s clearly not in the mood.

Against her training, she makes deliberate noise as she moves towards him--sneakers sliding against the carpet, door closing with a loud click. He doesn’t move a muscle, not one, even as she comes to sit sideways on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping so that his lower back is up against her hip.

She sees the photo in his hands; he doesn’t try to hide it. Black and white. Steve and Bucky. Bucky is in his army uniform, hat cocked to the side completely against regulations, and he’s mugging for the camera with a wide, sin-filled smile across his face. His left arm is thrown around Steve’s narrow shoulders, holding him close for what looks like a selfie, Bucky’s other arm filling the left edge of the photo. And Steve. Shorter and smaller than his friend, Steve has his head tilted up, but he’s not looking at the camera. His face is turned to look at Bucky, his eyes full of . . . something.

Nat would call it adoration. Devotion. Love.

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hand rests along his khaki-clad thigh and tightens. It’s the small sort of touch he’s used to now from her, a bump of her hip against him, a poke in his ribs, a squeeze of his shoulder as she passes. Now that they trust each other, she can afford to show a little affection, even if it’s sometimes of the junior high variety.

But this moment is different; she’s walking the line between sympathy and pity, knowing he’ll clam up completely if he thinks she feels sorry for him. She slides her hand back and forth along his thigh. He wipes at his eyes with one hand and tucks the photo into the pocket of his checked shirt.

“We’ll find him,” she says.

He says nothing. Instead, his arm reaches back, slips around her waist, slow enough to give her time to suppress her instinct to fight it. He telegraphs his next move, giving her time to slip out of his hold, but she lets him leverage her body over his hip, lets him pull her down to lie beside him, his arms holding her close.

Her hand settles at the back of his neck. Even though he’s facing her, he can’t seem to meet her eyes, so she just pulls him close, his face at her chest. He burrows against the neckline of her shirt, his cheek warm and damp where it presses along her skin, just below her throat.

“Hey, he was your friend, I get it,” she says, her fingers weaving into the soft hair at his nape. “If it was Clint . . . or you--”

She can feel him grimace against her chest.

“--I couldn’t give up either.”

He nods against her, displacing the shirt further.

“We’ll find him,” she repeats, and she gives the back of his neck a squeeze.

“Yeah,” he says, his lips dragging against her skin. The word comes out a little choked, and he pulls away a bit, clearing his throat and wiping his snot on his sleeve like a twelve year old.

He glances at her rucked-down shirt and then finally meets her eyes. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for the way he’s mussed her or for the intimacy, but she doesn’t mind either and just gives a shrug. “Hey. What’s a bosom for?”

Steve rolls his bright blue eyes towards the ceiling and then smiles down at her, and she’s glad to have lightened his mood.

“So,” she says, her hand on his chest, one finger tapping the pocket that holds the photo.

“Yeah?” he says, and she feels like he’s encouraging her, like he knows what’s coming, like this is hardly the first time anyone’s asked him what she’s about to ask him.

“You and Bucky . . . you ever . . .?”

She raises an eyebrow, expecting him to be reticent, but she’s miscalculated. Steve is, somehow, perfectly calm and answers simply. “No.” The word is tinged with regret, and the rest of what he might say is clear: _Didn’t get the chance._

She pushes her luck. “You ever . . . with anyone?”

This, however, earns her a heavy sigh. “Why does everyone think I’m a virgin?”

“You never talk about it. You never bring anyone around.”

“Neither do you, but nobody thinks you’re--” Steve snaps his mouth shut at the look she gives him.

“Yeah, wonder why that is. It’s almost like men and women are held to different standards or something.”

“I just mean--”

He’s completely flustered, and she lays it out for him. “Look. Our bodies are what they are. Tools. Simple as that. What I choose to do with mine has very little to do with sexuality and a helluva lot more to do with what gets the job done.”

She knows she sounds cold. Her tone is practiced, business-like, meant to shut down the conversation, but Steve knows her tricks now.

“Like with Banner.”

Apparently, he also will use her own tricks against her, and she frowns at him. _I guess we’re done talking about Bucky_. “Yeah. Like that.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? Fury asking you to . . . “ Steve seems unable to finish the sentence.

She wonders what Steve’s imagining had happened between her and Bruce. Beyond a few heart to hearts and a kiss, it was barely anything at all, the mildest of embellishments here and there to try to connect with Bruce, keep him tethered. In the end, it had failed; she and Fury had underestimated the depth of Bruce’s self-loathing. Ironically, Steve’s the one who’s getting pretty damn good at reading people--or, at least, he’s pretty damn good at reading _her_. He had figured out what she was doing with Banner without her saying a word. But he also seems to think she should be a lot more broken up about it all.

She squints at him. “It’s so cute, the way you think I’d do anything I didn’t want to do. By which I mean, it’s completely patronizing.”

“Look, I get it, anything for the mission, I just mean . . . we’re supposed to be a team, right? How does that work if we’re . . . handling each other?”

She can’t resist deflecting, teasing, and she gives him a coy look. “Maybe it’s not so bad, being _handled_ ,” she says, undulating her spine a little to emphasize where his hands still lay upon her back.

He gives her an exasperated sigh in return. “Can you just be serious about this?”

She relaxes backward, sinking into the mattress a bit. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“How do you feel about it? Lying to Banner, managing him, managing me . . .”

She shoves a hand against his chest. “I’m not managing you. Not anymore. I wouldn’t.” It surprises them both that she means it.

“Why not?”

Fighting her first instinct-- _be coy, make a joke, distract, deflect_ \--she inhales deeply before answering. “Look. The list of people I trust? It’s got three names on it. Used to just have two. I promoted you after Sokovia.”

His eyes widen a little, in surprise, yes, but he’s also working out who else is on the list.

“Me. Barton. Fury?” Steve squints at her like she’s the naive one.

“Hey, Fury’s on _our_ side.”

He scrunches up his face. “Didn’t know there were sides to be on.”

Sometimes she still can’t believe how forthright he is, the way he instinctively wants to play it straight, cards on the table. She shakes her head at him. “You work for _spies,_ Steve. There are always sides.”

Steve makes a face like he’s swallowing castor oil. “How do you do it? Isn’t is exhausting? Wondering all the time who you can count on?”

She shrugs. “This is all I’ve known, for so long, I don’t really think of it that way.” He looks even more lost, and worse, like he’s worried about her, so she gives him something, a half-smile, a sincere truth to help the medicine go down. “I don’t wonder about you. I know you’ve got my back.”

She says it casually, like it’s nothing, but he knows it’s not nothing. His reply is fierce, his eyes intense. “Same.”

Overwhelmed, in a way that she never used to be, she blinks. Pats his shoulder to cover. “Okay. So quit worrying, grandpa.”

He smiles back, shakes his head at her as he huffs out an irritated chuckle. “Fuck you.”

Her eyes go wide in feigned shock. “Captain! _Language_!”

That pushes his buttons. His hands tighten around her waist and his face contorts in annoyance. “Jesus, why does everyone around here think I’m some innocent Goody Two-Shoes! I got a dark side, just like everyone, I just don’t parade it around like it’s something to be god damn proud of!”

Natasha barely manages not to roll her eyes. _Oh, man. The lack of self-awareness on this guy._ He might be the least fucked up of their bunch, but they are all, each of them, broken. Nat is in the mood to make a point, so she drops her voice low and fixes him with her gaze, steady and piercing.

“Of course, you do, Rogers.”

He stills, surprised she’s agreeing with him, and she continues.

“You’re impulsive. Reckless. Disregard direct orders as it suits you. Easily provoked. Constantly spoiling for a fight. Self-righteous. Dogmatic. Chip on your shoulder the size of Gibraltar.”

He’s blinking--nearly flinching--at each word as she says it. There’s more, plenty more, but she pauses.

“Go on,” Steve says, voice hoarse.

It’s not going to be pretty, but he wants to take a good look at himself, no matter what he sees, and, if that’s what he really wants, she can be a mirror for him.

“Orphan. Abandonment issues. Anxiety. Displacement. Sublimation.”

His jaw is tight, his eyes hard. “You see all that in my file?”

“Steve,” she says, a sad smile curling her lips. “I see all that in your face.”

He’s watching her, both fascinated and wary, and she sees no reason to stop now. She shifts, movements smooth, testing his reaction as she slides one leg to hook over his thigh, presses at his shoulders with her hands. He rolls willingly onto his back, adjusting his body to let her settle atop him, straddle him, her hands resting lightly on his chest.

He is warm beneath her. His voice is rough and low. “What else?”

She cocks her head to the side, considers. “You’ve got this . . . mantle.” Her fingers trace over his collarbones, slide over his shoulders. “Always taking responsibility. Always making the hard call. Standing up. Doing the right thing.”

His eyes are riveted to hers; she can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You’re strong enough, sure. But I bet that shield gets heavy sometimes.” His sharp intake of breath is all she needs to know she’s right, and she presses down against him just the slightest bit more and lets her fingers trail back down to his chest.

“Maybe you want to put it down. Not for good. Not forever. Just for a little while--” She drags her palms down, a slow slide over his stiffening nipples. “--just long enough for you to lay back. Let someone else make the decisions for a while. Let someone else be in charge.”

At that, she feels his cock stir beneath her, sees his eyes darkening. He’s so wonderfully open; she feels like she could reach through all the tangles in his mind and grasp the very center of him, hold his soul in her hand. She finds she wants to.

“It’d have to be someone you trust, someone you’d feel safe with, safe to let go.”

His breathing is shallow now, and he resists not at all as she reaches for his wrists, lifts his arms above his head. He bends his elbows willingly, a blush creeping over his cheeks, flushing over his throat as she uses one hand to hold his wrists down.

“Do you trust me?” she purrs, and, with deliberate pressure, she aligns herself to him, groin to groin, as she leans forward, her hair a curtain around his face. He seems incapable of speech, and his cock hardens below her, pressing up against her. “You’re always daring people to push you. To make you move.”

She lowers her voice to a whisper, lips against his ear. “I’ll push you. I’ll make you move.”

He shudders, his cock jumps with interest, and then he’s swearing. “Fuck.”

Smiling, she sits up, releasing his wrists and shifting herself back a bit, easing the pressure on his groin. He looks dazed, blinks up at her.

“It’s scary how good you are at that.”

She lifts an eyebrow.

“No, not . . . the sexy stuff. Although you’re-- I mean, you’re really good at--” he splutters. He takes a breath to steady himself and huffs it out. “Reading people.”

“Oh. That.” She shrugs. Like the gymnast she is, she slides off of him in a smooth motion to stand at the side of the bed. He sits up at the edge of the mattress and takes her hand.

“Seriously.” His eyes dart away for a moment. “I didn’t know. That was . . . way more appealing than I would’ve thought. The idea of . . . giving up control.”

His eyes come back to her, and she smiles. “Well, Rogers, you’re gonna have to get used to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“This search for Bucky,” she says, and his expression sobers. “You’re not gonna find him until he wants to be found.”

“I know.” His fingers curl around hers. “I just need him to know I’m looking.”

She figured as much. She nods, and pulls on his hand until he stands. “So,” she begins, matter of fact, like she’s laying out a mission strategy. “Movie with me and Sam. Burgers and beer.” She tightens her hold on his hand. “And then we keep looking.”

His eyes sparkle at her, and she sees the trust, the gratitude there.

“Yes, ma'am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Armada for looking over an early version of this and helping me think some things through. <3


End file.
